Memorial
by Aisalynn
Summary: I feel like there should be dust," she said, voice quiet. ---The Doctor shows Rose a room in the TARDIS he's never shown anyone before. Ten/Rose


The lights were dim in Rose's room. Dim and quiet and still, like the inside of a mausoleum or a monument about a war, or maybe a church, quiet and somber on the day of the funeral.

Even the TARDIS was mourning.

They would probably make a monument for Canary Warf, the Doctor thought as he stood in the doorway, a plaque or a statue with the names of the dead inscribed on it, a touching and sad phrase above them about their sacrifice and loss. He could go and see it if he wanted to, years after it was built. He could run his fingers over the aged and cracked stone and know he was in a time when Canary Warf and Cybermen and death were long forgotten, a time when only a stone and meaningless words remained. If he wanted to, he could stand there with is eyes closed and feel the vastness of time, know that the universe moved on and little things--things like blonde hair and toothy smiles and the sudden absence of a warm hand in his--they were just that: little. Tiny. Insignificant when compared to all that the universe was and contained.

He didn't want to.

He walked into the room and paused in the middle, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It had been weeks now, weeks since Rose had last been in here, but her scent was still there, lingering on the clothes scattered across the floor, the rumpled bed sheets, on the stuffed bear he had to take her home to get, in the very air that had been sitting still and motionless, waiting for her to return and breathe it, to fill her lungs so that her voice could ripple through it.

"_What is this place, Doctor?" _

_Rose's voice was quiet as she looked around the cavernous room. It was filled with boxes and crates, stacked on top of each other and overflowing with items: clothes and books and jewelry, knick-knacks and pillows and chairs and lampshades, just sitting around in piles. _

_She threw a curious glance back at him and he shifted the box in his arms nervously. "It's… a storage room, o-of a kind." _

"_A storage room, huh?" Her gaze had returned to the piles and boxes. "Storage of what?"_

_He didn't answer._

He opened his eyes and looked around the room. It was mess of color: purples and pinks and yellows mixed with a few touches of blues and greens. There were pictures on the walls of her and family and friends, her mom and Mickey, a girl he assumed was Shareen. There were even a few of him. He remembered when they were taken, the few times she was able to talk him into it, standing impatient and twitchy in front of the camera.

He looked at the clothes scattered on the floor, tumbling out of the drawers and closets, sitting in piles in the corner. The room didn't seem like a room of someone who was no longer here. It was as if she could come back any moment, kick more clothes into a pile, collapse on the bed with a huff and complain about how bad her feet hurt from the running.

He picked up a jacket from the floor, folded it, unfolded it and dropped to the floor again.

She wouldn't be coming back.

_He watched her as she explored the room, lifting up the lids of the boxes and peering into the contents, picking up random objects and examining them. She found a blue blouse and held it out, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. _

_He held his breath when she came to a particular pile, watched as her actions slowed, as her brow crinkled in confusion and recognition when she slowly ran her hands over a familiar coat. "Jack…" he heard her whisper. _

_Her head whipped around towards him, eyes narrowing as they focused on the box in his arms. She stomped over and ripped the lid off, glaring down at the small stack of ragged jeans and t-shirts, worn photos and electronic gadgets. "Mickey." _

_She looked around the room again, maybe taking notice of how each pile was carefully separated from each other. When her eyes finally met his they were no longer angry but sad, hurt. "Is this what you do, Doctor? Leave us behind one day, and then shove all our things in this room like we never even existed?" _

_He said nothing and avoided her eyes, looking instead to the boxes and piles, memorials of those he'd loved, and lost. _

"_Why did you bring me here?"_

_He wasn't sure. He'd never brought anyone to this room before. Maybe he needed her to realize that what she said, what she wanted--forever--wouldn't, _couldn't_ happen. _

_Maybe he needed himself to realize that._

He carefully ran his fingertips over her things: the knick-knacks and hair pins on the dresser, picture frames on the bedside table, the indent still left on her pillow… He pulled his hand away and sighed.

_They were quiet for a while, neither looking at each other. She trailed her fingers over the items of a near by pile, and held her hand out to the light afterward. _

"_I feel like there should be dust," she said, voice quiet. _

_He finally spoke. "The TARDIS takes care of that." His voice was rough, as if he hadn't spoken in longer than just a few minutes. _

_She nodded, then sighed. "Come on," she muttered, taking the box from his hands and carefully setting it on the floor next to Jack's things. "Let's get out of here." She quickly walked out of the room. _

_He didn't follow. _

He looked around the room and took another deep breath, letting the scent of her, the memories of what was, the possibilities of what could have been, fill him. And then he walked out of the room.

He couldn't do it. Not yet.

He ignored the empty boxes beside the door.


End file.
